


Strong-Armed

by alltoseek



Series: Spanking John [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade doesn't care for John and Sherlock's cavalier treatment of evidence at crime scenes, and takes measures to ensure it won't happen again.</p><p>Or in John's words: <i>What the hell, did his backside have a sign hanging on it that read 'spank me'?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Strong-Armed

**Author's Note:**

> Please note I have chosen not to use archive warnings. Dub-connish territory.
> 
> Originally for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=34216535#t34216535) on the kinkmeme; completed for archea's [Spanksgiving Fest](http://archea2.livejournal.com/84008.html)
> 
> Beta'd by the excellent grassle.

John left the surgery in a surprisingly good mood for the late hour and long shift he'd worked. Sherlock's latest case had been resolved a week ago – long enough to blunt the horror of the violent denouement, but fresh enough to still feel the thrill of their latest triumph. 

He'd taken just a few steps along the pavement when a familiar figure strolled up alongside him.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector,” John greeted cheerfully.

“Evening, Doctor,” Lestrade replied.

“It is a pleasant evening, isn't it?” John beamed.

Lestrade grunted.

They walked along in silence a bit, until Lestrade's silent and lowering mood began to impinge upon John's cloud of personal cheer. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

“There is,” Lestrade answered. “There's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Oh – ah...” John stopped walking. “We could go back to my office at the surgery?”

“Nah, that's alright. My flat's not far from here. Do you mind if we walk there? I'm trying to keep this from becoming official business.”

“No, I don't mind,” John answered, a little confused. Lestrade had never invited him over to his place before; he'd no idea it was even in this neighbourhood. And he sounded serious. This didn't sound good. So much for a pleasant evening.

To John's surprise, Lestrade started talking again as they continued walking. “I know Sherlock thinks he's pretty clever and us at the Yard a bunch of clueless twats, but we're not quite as stupid as he makes out.”

“Oh, I assure you – ”

“Now, I'm not here to tell you off about Sherlock's attitude. It's your actions I need to talk to you about.”

A dawning horror washed over John. “Is this about last week?”

“The bullet we pulled out of the wall behind the suspect – the one that supposedly put him out of commission – it never went through anyone's body. And it came out of the same gun as the other bullets – the ones on the opposite wall.”

“Sherlock explained – ”

“Yeah, clever Sherlock explains pretty damn glibly, I know. And quickly. And if you happen to think of a question at the time and he doesn't have an answer right away, he's got a Look for you instead – the 'why do I have to explain the obvious to you idiots, your tiny brains wouldn't comprehend it anyway' look. Yeah, I know. But I'm not talking to Sherlock; I'm talking to you. Sherlock doesn't use weapons – he uses that massive brain of his. You fired that shot.”

“We did explain – ”

“That you picked up one of the guns he'd been running, used it in self-defence, yeah. But I told you, the bullet came from the same gun. Not the same type. The same one.

“So the evidence people are thinking, did we mislabel? The hole next to it, that had a bullet from a different gun – the one you said you fired. But it didn't go through a body neither. And all the rest of the bullets – from the opposite wall, yeah? They're from the suspect's gun. But here's another problem – one bullet's missing.

“Now I value Sherlock as much as the next person – more than most, even. I don't want to see him shot down by some hoodlum. But I don't like people messing with evidence at my crime scenes, and I really don't like my team being made to look like incompetent fools either.

“And another thing I really don't like, Dr Watson,” said Lestrade in a low fierce tone, suddenly turning to thrust John up against the wall in a side alley, “is vigilantes wandering around London with their service weapons and a loaded sense of moral justice.”

John swallowed. He knew Lestrade had a couple of inches on him, but the man had never towered over him like this before. And how had he never noticed how broad his shoulders were? Suddenly the man seemed twice as wide as John.

“Now the way I see it is, I can take you down to the Yard, get a warrant to search your flat, interrogate you six ways to Sunday, harass Sherlock and keep him out of my cases until you come clean. Or we can continue on to my flat and settle this between ourselves.”

Interrogations – searches – gun possession charges, manslaughter charges – tampering with evidence – Sherlock rolling his eyes and sneering throughout it – none of it sounded good to John. These thoughts flitted through John's head, but there was never a question what he was going to say. “There's no need to go to your office,” he rasped through a dry throat.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Once we get to my flat, I'm in charge, you understand?”

John didn't, but he nodded and licked his lips. “Yeah.”

Lestrade gave a tight smile and pushed himself off the wall. He placed a hand against the small of John's back and guided him out of the alley.

A short distance walked in tense silence brought them to Lestrade's building. Once inside his flat Lestrade took off his coat and suit jacket and hung them up. “Make yourself comfortable, John,” he said. “We're going to be a while. Can I get you anything? Drink of water? Tea?”

“Uh, tea, please,” said John, licking his lips nervously. He didn't like the sound of 'we're going to be a while.' And Lestrade's change of demeanour from threatening to welcoming was throwing him off.

Whilst his host was making the tea in the kitchen, John wandered about the sitting room, wondering just what the hell was going on.

Lestrade came back with tea. “Sit,” he ordered, handing him a mug. John sat in an armchair, and Lestrade sprawled in the middle of the sofa. John sipped his tea in silence while Lestrade stared at him.

After a few moments Lestrade broke the silence. “Look, John, I like you, I do, but tampering with the evidence, missing evidence, enquiries, endless paperwork, bickering amongst the team members – I can't have that.”

“Yes, absolutely, I understand.” John gave his best earnest agreeable expression.

“What I'm saying is, I'm only going to do this once. Consider this a warning – an unofficial one. Next time, it's official all the way – you and Sherlock will have to answer for all the legal complications.”

OK, John thought, but what exactly –

“You've been a pain in my arse. Now I'm going to be a pain in yours.”

 _What? Wait... No, he couldn't mean –_

Lestrade had risen and fetched a police truncheon and a pair of cuffs.

John instantly stood up. “No,” he said in his sternest military-officer voice. “Absolutely not.”

Lestrade returned his look consideringly. “These are only if you choose not to cooperate. I take it you're going to cooperate, then?”

“What do you mean?” asked John warily.

Lestrade sat back down on the sofa and patted his lap. “Drop your trousers.”

There _was_ a sign. A bloody great flashing neon sign. He knew because he found himself shuffling over to Lestrade, his hands already working his belt and flies. It'd taken _weeks_ to recover from Mycroft's caning, and he had no intention of finding out what an experienced police officer could do with his weapon. Trousers lowered, John lay along the length of the sofa, his hips positioned across the policeman's sturdy lap. 

He heard Lestrade give a grunt of satisfaction and felt his fingers curl around the waistband of his pants and slide them down. They caught on his penis, already swelling with arousal. _What the hell?!_ thought John. _I am_ not _getting off on this_. This was just Lestrade – Lestrade, for crying out loud! Not Sarah, no hot birds like Anthea about; just Lestrade, going grey, growing a little soft in the belly, although his thighs under John felt muscular and strong. His hands too were firm and warm as they stroked over John's backside, pushing up his shirt out of the way.

 _Oh fuck_ thought John. _I am so fucked. So_ fuck–

 _Smack!_ came down that broad hand, hitting hard. John's hips bucked involuntarily, causing welcome friction for his cock from Lestrade's trousers. The pain hadn't come yet, in the wave of the slap, but the heat was growing _everywhere_... John didn't have long to think about that, as the spanking came hard and fast, Lestrade's hand moving to cover every inch of John's buttocks, although mostly focused on the lower area, the curve to meet the thighs. Right where his tender bollocks lay only inches away, protected only by a meagre portion of his thighs, which were coming in for their fair share of smacks. 

John was panting, gasping for breaths, the speed and force of the blows not leaving him any time to recover. He felt his face flushed – as red as his rear, no doubt – flushed and wet, sweat prickling all over his body. His skin everywhere tender, sensitive to the slight breeze caused by the movement of Lestrade's arm. Especially his cock, rubbing against the polyester of the trousers. Each smack jarred his torso, sending his chest and face scratching across the coarse fabric of the sofa. His hands scrabbled for purchase, trying to maintain control. Any kind of control. He alternately bit and licked his lips, tasting the salt. He moaned, his hips finding the rhythm at last, plunging his erection between Lestrade's thighs, feeling for the other's cock – perhaps if Lestrade was turned on too –

“Hold still: this is punishment, not playtime,” growled Lestrade. He placed his left hand firmly on John's back, pressing him into his lap.

John closed his eyes tightly, braced his hands against the arm of the sofa, and latched his teeth onto his forearm, trying to stifle the groans that he couldn't seem to stop. With nothing to do with his body but hold still for each smack, whenever and wherever Lestrade choose to deliver it, every second stretched to an eternity. His heart throbbed in time with the pulsing in his cock, as heavy and full as ever. There were no other sounds in the flat; the eternal background noise of London was muffled: all John could hear was his own panting breaths, the roaring thrum in his ears, and the steady beat of palm on flesh – sometimes a dull thud, sometimes a sharp slap.

John felt at once small – a tiny shrunken consciousness in a vast empty space; and huge – the sense of his physical body engulfing his entire awareness.

The quiet, the warmth, the strange intimacy between him and Lestrade; John lost himself in it. He was wrapped in a cocoon of the rough fabric of the sofa, the scratchy one of Lestrade's trousers, and the smooth firm hold of his arm. John merely existed in this space cut-off from the rest of his life, no choice, no control, just existence. Sensations had taken over.

So intent was John on his humiliation, the pain, the arousal, the sensations, that he didn't notice the spanking had ceased until Lestrade drew his fingernails lightly over John's inflamed buttocks. Lestrade chuckled at the shudder that shook John's whole body. “All right, up you get now.”

Still in a daze, the spell breaking up under Lestrade's dismissal, John made his painful way to standing, moving slowly to stave off the dizziness that threatened from his light-headed state.

There was no way to hide his stiffened prick from Lestrade's appreciative gaze. John kept his head down as he drew up his pants and trousers gingerly, but he noted the relaxed way Lestrade sat back against the sofa, legs spread and arms out casually. As if all they'd been doing was having a beer and watching a game.

Dressed at last, the weird mood finally dispelled, all John felt now was a growing anger and irritation. Anger at himself and Lestrade – this whole ridiculous situation – and irritation at his continued sexual arousal, which showed no sign of abating. And no relief to be found here. Even if he ever cared for 'playtime' with blokes – which he didn't, fuck you very much – he was just a mite too fucking furious with a certain DI to hang around here any longer. 

He headed for the door with Lestrade close behind. Just as John's hand grasped the doorknob, Lestrade reached past him to lean his arm on the door, keeping it closed. “This was punishment,” came his voice in John's ear. “Next time, if you want to play, you know where to come.” He grabbed John's crotch, pressing his own now-obvious erection against John's sore arse. John gasped, then wrenched the door open and strode out quickly, slamming the door behind him in Lestrade's chuckling face.

John walked briskly – well, as briskly as he could, which was not very, considering, but dammit, he was a soldier! He'd been in worse pain, even recently. Even in very similar conditions, recently – this was becoming an all-too-common occurrence for him; why was that? What the hell was this neon sign anyway? That everyone else could see but he couldn't? 

John headed toward Baker Street, trying (and failing) to ignore the brush of his clothes against his throbbing arse behind and his still-throbbing cock in front. Evidently his cock could read that sign too. John decided that it was simple physiology – too many nerve endings, pleasure signals to stimulate in that area. But then a pesky internal voice asked, _"What about how aroused you get before there's even been any spanking?"_

John squashed that voice. And the one that asked about lying across Lestrade's muscular thighs and feeling his strong hand on his flesh. John preferred birds. Always had, always would. Lestrade and his 'playtime' could bugger right off.

The night air had cooled his head somewhat but done nothing for the rest of him, each step only enflaming him further. He felt in no state to return to the flat and Sherlock's ruthless gaze. At a corner he paused, licking his lips, and wondered where else he might go – somewhere he could take care of his remaining problems. _I wonder if Sarah's doing anything tonight?_ John resumed walking, no less tender but a little more cheerful.


End file.
